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| La--Marseillaise
La--Marseillaise
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[48937013]
[2019-06-27 02:19:37 +0000 UTC]
"Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité"
(France)
# Statistics
Favourites: 10; Deviations: 5; Watchers: 40
Watching: 33; Pageviews: 1701; Comments Made: 1103; Friends: 33
# Comments
Comments: 212
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Arthur stood nervously at the end of the pathway, staring at the entrance to Marienne's home as if it were a great wave looming overhead, intent on crushing him. His phone dinged in the pocket of his coat, but he paid no attention to it. It could only be that damned frog with his cruel encouragement -- it was his fault he was standing frozen here after all.
He had arrived in Paris just a few days prior on behalf of Her Majesty, to deliver a letter of gratitude for the gift bestowed on her birthday. Though he had other intentions on this short trip. He hated himself for it, but he could not help but pry into the events that plagued the Frenchwoman. Francis had revealed nothing, only scolding him and questioning him repeatedly as to his concern, until he found a smug smile spreading across his face. He warned Arthur he would not allow him to leave without seeing Marienne.
"Take her out! You are in the city of amour, mon ami, let it bloom here and only here or I will refuse to give my blessings."
He'd fought, claiming not to be ready, only to be dragged away and disposed of at her front door, a bouquet of flowers in hand, and an appearance that was not his. He patted at his hair, which through a ferocious battle, had tamed beneath the Frenchman's hands. He could flee, he should very well flee, but he was no bloody coward! He cleared his throat, needlessly adjusting himself as he slowly approached the door. After an eternity passed, quite possibly two, he sighed with the purple roses and carnations covering his face. When the door opened, he peeked sheepishly like a small boy from behind them, "Good evening, madam. I'm utterly lost and in need of your assistance. Will you grace me with your presence this evening?"
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It was a fair sunny day in Paris, with large fluffy clouds turning pink in the evening sky. Marienne had spent all day cleaning up around the house, both inside and out, taking the occasional break to play with her new kittens. They were absolutely adorable and she was more than happy to have them in her home. After a quick power nap with the exhausted kitties, Marienne decided a glass of wine and some time in front of the canvas would be a good way to end the day. She did, after all, owe a painting to one of her new friends in the South Pacific. So with the windows open and a warm breeze blowing in, she sets about painting a piece of home: The Côte d’Azur. There are blue and green waves, brown buildings, and sandy beaches. After an hour she’s pleasantly dappled with paint.
Unfortunately she had to pause in her little escape from reality as she hears the doorbell ring. With a sigh the brush is set down for now, and the door closed behind her to prevent curious kittens from getting covered in paint while she was distracted by what she assumed was a package delivery she had to sign for. But as she opens the door, she lets out a small gasp at the flowers and the rosy-cheeked Brit standing behind them. “Arthur?” she questions, feeling a bit embarrassed. There he was, the UK himself, standing in front of her door with a bouquet in hand and dressed all up for a night on the town. And here she was, in an old t-shirt tied up at the navel and a pair of worn-out denim shorts. Her hair was half falling out of a messy bun and there was paint splattered all over her. Soon enough her own cheeks were turning pink with embarrassment at the unexpected visitor. “You didn’t tell me you were coming over!” she exclaims, instinctively reaching up to fix her hair despite standing there in front of him. Suddenly she remembers her manners, and fumbles to open the door wider. “Come in come in! Mind the kittens, I don’t want them out this late in the day.” Her heart was racing. Nobody told her Arthur was coming over like this! And she was completely unprepared! Oh God what was he going to think???!
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The night had been hot and humid, the evening air choked with the ash from another burnt mansion. There was no relief inside or outside and the misery was palpable on the wholly insufficient evening breeze. The few stragglers hurried home, and avoided looking in the direction of her prison manor, least the spies for the Committee of Public Safety report them as monarchists.
As the night crawled on, the heat lessened but the smoke neither grew stronger nor weakened. The stars were hidden by the thick haze. The lights of once gay city too were smoldered and diminished. It is only just before midnight that she becomes aware of a sound, muffled, below her window.
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How anyone could sleep in the middle of this chaos was beyond her. Marienne is exhausted and overwhelmed with everything that was going on. The Revolution had quickly turned into a bloody and horrible thing, causing much stress to her and François. She felt bad for her brother who was at the forefront of it all. She hadn’t seen him in…Honestly, she’s lost track by now. Had it been weeks? Months? She’s not sure. All day long she prays for his safety and to see his smiling face once more. Already the King had been lost, and everyone feared for their lives. Who was next? Who would lose their head to the guillotine? Hopefully not her or François, difficult as it would be to actually kill them.
A muffled noise outside her window catches her attention. It couldn’t be much more than a homeless person or a stray cat at this dark hour, but she looks out her window anyways for lack of anything better to do in the confines of her small room.
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The trellis beside the window shakes and suddenly a face appears - a dark face, only discernable by the presence of white teeth and the whites of eyes.
"Bonsoir, Madame. May I come in? I don't trust this to hold my weight too much longer."
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She lets out a small gasp at the sudden appearance of a man in her window. "What- What are you doing up there? Who are you and what do you want from me?" she asks, unsure if the man was trustworthy. He had after all climbed the garden trellis to gain access to her window three stories up. "Come down from there before you fall! You'll die if you fall that far!" The last thing she wanted to see was another man die in the streets. There had been far too much death and destruction, and there seemed to be no end in sight.
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"Merci, Madame." He crawled in through the window and now in the light of a solitary candle she can see him better. He is a small man, dressed all in black, his blond hair hidden under a tight black turban. His bright blue eyes gleam with mischief, and his skin is not naturally the color of bootblack, but rather blackened by a combination of crushed charcoal and grease. He bows, in the old formal manner.
"Forgive me for this rude intrusion. You are Madame Durant, oui? If not, you look very much like the good lady."
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What a strange man, dressed all in black and covered in filth. She can't help her look of confusion and slight disapproval. Why would anyone dress themselves like this?? It was unfathomable.
"What do you want with me? What have I or François done this time? I have not seen the man in ages. There is no way I could have conspired anything!" She is worried for her life. The ever-looming presence and threat of the guillotine was most definitely a pressing concern in this day and age.
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"Ah, so you are Madame Durant. Please do not be alarmed. Monsiuer Francis sent me. My name is Fitz, and he begs you to come with me. You are not safe here. I have a horse waiting for us, if we leave now we can be at his side in three days travel. Your brother is still fighting off the Prussians and Austrians."
He pulls a leather thong from under his shirt, and pulls it over his head. There is a ring on it, with a lovingly carved rose, from a garnet. She had given it to Francis almost a century ago.
"He said you would recognize this ring."
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The woman had backed away from him in the event that he was some kind of radical, but upon hearing that François had sent for her, and seeing the proof of his garnet ring, she quickly moves forward. "How is François? Is he okay?" She is desperate for any news concerning her brother. Nobody was telling her anything. She'd been practically imprisoned here since the Revolution had taken a bloody turn. Then, it occurs to her this Fitz fellow had mentioned a horse. "How do you suggest we leave? The door is locked and we're three stories up." There was nothing she could think of that would allow her escape.
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"Your brother is well, if tired from the onslaught. More, he is sick with worry for you, for the letters we have recieved do not bode well for you. Once he heard that they were guillotining the Brothers who ran the royal library he sent me to retrieve you. The battlefront is no place for a lady, but neither is the head rest beneath that thirsty blade." Fitz reflected darkly. But at her worried questions he grins brightly.
"How do you feel about climbing down?" He asks, taking his 'turban' off, revealing it to be meters and meters and meters of silk, more than enough to reach the ground. Under the turban is a shock of blond hair, shoulder length and tied up into a knot with a dirty silk ribbon. "If you don't think you can, you can hold tightly to me as I lower us to the ground. But first, you must change out of your dress. Do you have a spare of your brother's clothes? You will draw less attention."
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It's as she had feared; the longer she stayed here the higher the chances were they would eventually execute her. It was simply a waiting game. Hearing that François had sent for her was good news, and it offered much relief. She could not be entirely relieved, though, until after they had escaped this prison.
"Climb down?" she asks, confused, watching him undo his turban. This man had more tricks up his sleeve than a magician. What's next, she wonders? A flying horse? "I don't- Change?! Out of my dress?!" The mere suggestion sends her from mild surprise to absolute shock. She's torn between believing him and shoving him back out the window for daring to ask such a thing of a noble woman.
Fitz' demeanor hardly changes, though. Marienne's face is red with embarrassment and anger, but she decides that she was willing to do almost anything if it means being able to see François again, and keeping her head attached to her neck. "I think I do, but you must turn around and face the wall. If you look even the smallest bit I will see you under the guillotine yourself."
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"Madame, I swear on your brother's life I will not peek." He bows and turns smartly, using the time to coil the silk cloth and make a tight knot in one end, with a grappling hook. When she finally gives him leave to turn around, he goes to the window and sets the hook firmly into the stone of the sill. He makes a loop in the silk, puts his foot in it, then goes out the sill. There he is, like a magician, standing seemingly in the air, supported by a curious configuration of the rope.
"Blow out your candle, madame, and come now. There is no more time to dally."
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Once the odd man had turned, she waits a moment to make sure he is dutiful in keeping that way before she rummages through the dresser. François did have some spare clothes, though it is quite a strange concept for her to be wearing them. Every now and then she peeks over to Fitz who has faithfully remained facing the wall. The change into François' clothes is awkward and confusing, but once she has managed it well enough to her liking, she finds them to be a few sizes too big. Still, it will have to do in such an emergency.
She gives Fitz permission to turn around, and he wisely keeps any comments about her change in attire to himself. The candle is blown out as requested and she joins him at the window sill. The sheer drop causes Marienne to hesitate another moment, but the urgency of their situation is enough for her to overcome the fear of heights just long enough to grab hold of him as they are lowered to the ground. It simply wasn't feasible to climb down on her own.
It's a strange feeling to be out on the streets once again, nearly free. She has a much different vantage point. Even in the darkness of the night there is still much to be seen and felt and heard.
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He gripped her tightly, with his free hand, his smile slightly apologetic.
"A word of advice, Madame, do not look down." The decent is quick and as jostle free as he can manage, for Francis had warned him she did not like heights and would likely have trouble with this particular method of escape. He would have happily fought his way in and out, but that would be too obvious, and showing up blood spattered would doubtlessly cause the poor lady some terror, something he was actually trying to avoid. On the street he seized her wrist "This way, step quickly!" and hurried her off to the alley where his horse, a big black charger stood watching the proceeding with an air of amusement.
"You do know how to ride in a regular saddle, oui?" He asks, whistling to the great horse.
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Fitz doesn't have to tell her twice; simply looking down from the window sill had her second guessing this whole escape idea. She's holding onto him as tightly as she can, eyes screwed shut the entire length of the rappel. Even after she was safely on the ground, there was only a few seconds to take in her new surroundings before she was being yanked away down the street. She'd nearly tripped, but managed to catch her feet in time to keep up. God, it felt so awkward to run in men's trousers.
"It's been centuries but I'll manage," she answers. Hopefully they can make it out of Paris before anyone notices that she's missing.
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Fitz doesn't give her time to consider, he grabs her by the waist and has her up in the saddle as the horse was in motion. One stride more and he was up behind her, and the horse was off like a shot, riding as if Hell and every demon was on its heels.
The horse is magnificent and keeps up the incredible pace for well over three miles before Fitz finally reigns it in to a more placid walk, the center of the city far behind them. They move through this more open part of Paris like ghosts, and even walking the great charger eats up the miles with his long stride.
By dawn they are far to the east of Paris, cutting across abandoned feilds, in their journey to rejoin her brother.
"There, we can rest until evening." Fitz announces, pointing to a seemingly abandoned shepherd's shelter.
It is an old building, once lovingly tended, now falling into ruin, but the roof is sturdy and there is room for all three of them to hide from prying eyes.
Fitz hops off with careless grace, and helps her down, holding her until weary, rubbery knees find their balance.
"If you mound up some straw over there, we can throw the horse blanket on it, and sleep well enough." He suggests, stripping the black horse of its tact. He rewards the horse, which he calls Black Pete, with a very thorough combing and rub down. The horse is quite content to stay within the confines of the shelter as Fitz fills the clay trough with clear water from the tiny well and oats from one saddle bag.
"Are you hungry?" He offers her a handful of dried figs and road bread, a thick crusted flatbread.
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Before she could even attempt to mount on her own, she was already being picked up and placed on the horse. It was only seconds later that the horse was being spurred into a gallop, carrying them far from Paris. The city buildings flew by in a blur and the wind whipped her hair behind her so violently she thought that even the ribbon tied around it might fall out. Her hands clutched tightly at the horse’s mane, arms moving in rhythm with its gait.
Eventually they slowed to a more leisurely pace as they began to enter the countryside. Hours and hours later, Fitz points out some old and decaying building in a field where they would evidently be staying. She understands their circumstances, but even so, she wrinkles her nose at the thought of staying in such a shelter for any length of time. She is a noble woman, not a commoner.
Marienne slides off the horse with Fitz’s help, her knees almost giving way underneath her after the long journey. With his help, she is able to regain her balance after a moment. She flexes her stiff fingers a moment before looking back at him. She’d had some time to think, and his name sounded familiar somehow. “Do I know you from somewhere? I can’t properly see your face, covered as it is in filth.”
She moves the straw around after a moment, deciding that yes, getting some rest sounded absolutely fantastic. Too bad there wasn’t a proper bed, though… The figs were a welcome snack, and it would probably be just enough to hold her over for a few hours. Unless he had something else up his sleeve, they would need to buy more food between here and wherever her brother was. He did say it was three whole days away.
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"Rest, Madame. I know it is no goose down matress, but I promise you will not notice shortly." The horse blanket is rough under her cheek, and when he sees her discomfort, he sheds his over coat and wraps it in the same silk they escaped from her prison to make a pillow for her.
"My full name, a epitaph to many an enemy, is Veka Fitzfrancis." He laughs softly. "Although everyone just calls me Fitz, and I'm rather fond of that name." He touches the side of his face, and snorts.
"I had need to sneak into the city, too many of the Committee know my face, so it made more sense to hide it. But you're right. Out here there is no need for it. I'll wash up while you rest."
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For someone who was used to silk sheets, the horse blanket was more than a little rough to the touch. She’s about to forego resting altogether until Fitz offers up his coat to her. Well, it would have to do. She gratefully takes it, watching him walk back outside to wash up. Veka Fitzfrancis. The name absolutely sounds familiar, but from where? She lays her head on the ‘pillow’ to rest, still trying to think until she is fast asleep.
Her dreams are mostly memories of days long gone, when there was more peace than unrest. François is happy again, she is happy to see him so carefree for once, or really at all. He leans in to whisper something to her, but she cannot hear what it is. Confused, she looks up at him ready to ask him what he is saying. Only, he was not there. Only his headless form in the streets of Paris. A terrified scream leaves her as she jolts awake in bed. “François!”
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Something soft nudges her, insistently, until she wakes from the dream. It is the velvet soft nose of Black Pete, and the horse is watching her with deep equine concern. Outside the shelter she can hear the sounds of birds. The slant of sunlight suggests it is early afternoon, and Fitz is nowhere to be seen.
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She had hoped to see François when she sat upright in bed, but instead she found only Black Pete. Softly, she reaches up to stroke his nose. "Sorry, did I scare you? I really hope François is okay...Nobody was telling me anything in Paris..." After a taking a moment to calm down, she rises to her feet and peers outside. She's not taking a single step outside in this outfit. The trousers were too big and falling off her as it was.
The sun was still bright in the sky and hadn't quite begun to set, giving her a good guess as to the time. Still, as she looks around Fitz was nowhere in sight. Letting out a sigh, Marienne sits back in the straw. Now what? It's not like there's anything she could do. It was just another prison. Damn that man for leaving her here like this. She's absolutely going to pay him back.
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It is another half hour, then Fitz is there, walking through the wild grasses. Black Pete had moved outside to graze once Marienne was up, and nickers a greeting as the small man approaches.
"Bonjour, mon cher." Fitz murmurs, and produces several carrots from his bundle he is carrying. After a moment of sweet nothings, he continues onto the shelter, and appears surprised to see her awake.
"Oh, bonjour, madame. I thought you would sleep another hour yet. You were very tired." He starts to take the bundle apart. It is a set of young man or elder boy's clothing, complete with belt, sturdy boots and a knife. There is also fresh bread, a hard cheese and a brown earthenware bottle.
"I'm sorry it's such poor fair, but it will fill your belly and the small beer will quench your thrist, madame. I'm going to brush out Pete, if you wish to change into something that fits better. " he offers her the clothes first.
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